This time last year, there was plenty of bike parking where I leave my means of transport during work. This year, even on the worst days (i.e., the worst days on which I still ride; on the really worst days, I now take BART), it can be difficult to find a spot if one doesn’t arrive a bit before 9 a.m.
This is good, because it means ridership is up, but worrisome to those of us who don’t like to leave our worrying until the last minute: In the spring, when the weather is great, where will I park?
There is another rack, but access to it is often problematic, because it’s much closer to the nearest parked car.
So I called my friend the building manager, but found she had been replaced by someone new, who didn’t return my first couple of calls, so I concluded she was a bad person who hated cyclists.
In due time, however, we met—she was actually quite nice, of course—and I showed her where more space is needed. She asked, “Is that all?” and sounded delighted. I guess the reputation of
It was a friendly meeting and maybe more space will be allotted for that rack one of these days.
Even so, when the warm weather comes, both racks may be fully occupied by the time I normally get to work, so I got to thinking about the city’s bike lockers. I had signed up for one close to my previous work location, but by the time it became available, I had moved a couple of blocks away and so let someone else take it.
Right after that, I decided maybe I should take it, just in case, but someone else had already snatched it. To the best of my knowledge, I asked to be put back on the waiting list, but wasn’t positive, so I called the city bike lady and she said that I was not on the list, but that a locker in that location did happen to be available, so I took it. It’s about a ten-minute walk from there to work.
The other day I was thinking about how it had been a long time since I’d gotten into a transportation-related fight with anyone. I thought about how I might announce that here, and how I would be sure to find myself in a fight soon after saying so, because that’s how the universe works. Forty-five minutes later, even before I said anything, I was in a fight.
As Twisty Faster recently wrote, to paraphrase almost not at all, the Andy Griffith whistle withered on my lips and I stopped to have a word with the van driver. I’ll omit the tedious details except to say that I was pretty much completely polite—I was in my very mildest fight-ready mood; had my mood been any milder, I wouldn’t even have stopped—and that the interaction ended with an employee of the van company placing his face eight inches from mine and yelling “Fuck off!” Tsk.
He was well-placed for me to put my fingers in his nostrils up to my knuckles, but I refrained.
When I got to work, I called someone at the building in front of which the van was parked to convey my disappointment, but didn’t bother calling the van company itself.
The jury is still out on the Tempur-Pedic. Some days my back feels just fine, and other days it hurts all day. Maybe it has nothing to do with the mattress at all, in which case I might as well get a much cheaper mattress.
The Tempur-Pedic is very heavy, and is limp as a noodle, so it is very difficult to move. One online review said something like, “If sleeping on this mattress doesn’t make your back hurt, trying to move it will.”
Several evenings ago, I tried turning it over to try sleeping on the harder bottom side, per the advice of various online commenters.
I managed that, and then undertook to remove the cover, which has kind of a canvas-like surface on the bottom, and then the zipper malfunctioned. My back was going pop-pop-pop-pop and I was good and mad by then, not to mention sweaty.
I could hear Tom chatting merrily away upstairs on the phone, so I told myself, “Pretend you’re an orphan,” which means to pretend you have to do whatever it is all by yourself and I did get the zipper fixed, and did get the cover back on, and put the mattress right way up, and later I told Tom never to so mistreat me in the future and he agreeably said he wouldn’t.